bronze locks falling forward across his brow. His face was leaner, shadowed furrows slashing down from high cheekbones to his jaw. He was taller.
Wait. Her mind was playing tricks on her. No man would be taller, it wasn’t possible. She tilted her head, sticking her pert nose in the air, and frowned. Embroidered across his tunic was a crest that she did not recognise: black and red lions on a gold background, a crown above. Was she mistaken about this man’s identity? The frantic beat of her heart gradually slowed, the burning brand in her hand giving her confidence. The flame created an effective barrier between them, preventing him from coming any closer. Doubt sifted through her. ‘How did you find me? How? Who told you where I was?’ she asked.
His eyes gleamed like pale frost, a glittering icy fire. Her questions made no sense. ‘No one told me. You ran away; I followed you from the castle.’ Frustration, tightly held, laced his voice.
‘Not now,’ Eva hissed at him. ‘Before. Who told you?’
‘No one told me anything,’ he replied bluntly, dismissing her questions with a cool, detached look. ‘I have never seen you before.’ Uninterest bordered his tone; he glanced pointedly at her leg, the blood on her woollen stocking. ‘I need to take this trap off and stop the bleeding.’ He leaned forward and she thrust the torch out instinctively, a quick vicious movement. She wasn’t sure who this man was, but she had to be careful. There was a crackle and the acrid smell of burning hair.
‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ He made an impatient sound between his teeth, almost a snort, plucking the brand easily from her fingers. He stuck it firmly back into the ground, out of her reach. ‘Stop playing games with me.’ His voice was laden with deadly intent.
‘Go away!’ she hissed at him. Vulnerability flooded over her; she wanted to cry at the unfairness of the situation. ‘I would rather have the Devil help me than the likes of you!’ She pushed at his huge shoulders, the mail coat links rippling against her chill fingers, attempting to shove him away, but he was immovable, an enormous, unwieldy rock. She thumped down on his shoulders, small fists banging ineffectually. ‘Don’t you dare touch me!’
Bruin chuckled at the maid’s ridiculous threats, the false bravado threading her voice. Who did she think she was? She spoke as his equal, yet she was only a nursemaid, a lowly servant. Her feisty, combative behaviour should have made him angry, annoyed, but instead he wanted to laugh. Her shrill tone bounced off him like darts against a drum skin. He couldn’t understand why she was so frightened of him and this misplaced fear, obstructive and stubborn, was slowing him down. The quicker he took her back to the castle, the quicker he would be able to undertake his brother’s quest. And time was not on his side; Steffen was dying. He needed to remember that.
The snow was gathering strength, falling more thickly now. He blinked away the flakes stuck to his lashes. With gauntleted hands, he grasped the toothed iron hoops and prised them apart with a snap. Muscles bulged in his upper shoulders, rounding out the tight flex of chainmail. Eva sucked in her breath, a sharp, tearing gasp as pain radiated through her calf.
‘There was no other way,’ Bruin said, watching the tears pool in her eyes. Her cheeks were flushed red, as if the cold air had slapped her.
‘Yes, there was,’ she bit out, a sob stifling her voice. ‘You could have left me alone.’ She wrapped her arms tightly around her middle. The teeth of the trap had ripped ragged holes into her stocking, beneath which her skin was purple, bruised with ugly puncture marks, some bleeding heavily. But she was free, free of the awful iron cage. She tried to move her leg, tentatively, but the pain was too great. Unconsciousness threatened, blurring the edges of her mind, hazy fingers of oblivion eager to drag her down.
‘Out of the question,’ he said, gruffly. ‘No one would leave you out here, on your own. Who do you take me for?’
Him. I thought you were him. Eva cleared her throat, nibbling at her bottom lip. But now, she was almost certain he was not the same man. She took a deep shaky breath, the muscles binding her chest and torso relaxing. Failing to answer his question, she wriggled her hips around awkwardly, crawling on to all fours, intending to stand. The gleaming lions on his surcoat wobbled in front of her vision. Nausea roiled in her belly, a sickening lurch. The air around her loosened, shifted; suddenly she found herself incapable of holding herself upright. She began to tip, slowly, sideways.
‘Careful.’ The man caught her upper arm, supporting her, propping her wilting frame against him.
Her stomach churned dangerously; her forehead was clammy, sheened with a faint sheen of sweat. ‘I’m going to be sick,’ Eva spluttered out in panic. Oh, God, no. Not in front of him!
‘No, you’re not,’ he responded, his low voice close to her ear, the air from his lungs sifting across her skin. ‘Take deep breaths...there.’ Grasping her shoulders, he lifted her so that she was sitting on the ground again. His face was alarmingly close, silver eyes sparkling mere inches from her own. ‘You’ve had a shock. That’s why your head is spinning. You must keep still.’
Eva clamped her eyes tightly together, fighting the rolling waves of sickness, willing her head and stomach to settle. Snowflakes landed on her face, tickling gently. His hands were heavy on her shoulders; she could smell woodsmoke on his skin and clothes. A strange sensation looped through her chest; the muscles beneath her ribs contracted, involuntarily.
Opening her eyes, she pinned her gaze to a muddy streak across her skirts, mouth set in a straight line, determined to show this man that her nausea, her near-fainting, was merely a temporary weakness and not part of her character. ‘Who are you?’ she asked through the drifting snow. ‘What is your name?’
‘My name is Bruin, Count of Valkenborg.’
Not him. Not the same man. Thank God.
‘Valkenborg,’ she repeated stupidly. ‘I have not heard of that place before...’
‘I am from Flanders,’ Bruin replied, sensing her tension easing, the fractional wilt in the maid’s slim frame. But why would knowing his name cause her any comfort? He was a stranger to her. ‘From across the North Sea.’
‘I know where Flanders is,’ Eva snapped. She raised her eyes to his wild auburn hair. Above the fiery bristles covering his jaw, the determined slash of his cheekbones created shadowed hollows, giving his face a lean, wolfish look. He looked so similar to Lord Steffen, the resemblance was uncanny, and yet, he was not him. Her heart plunged at the intimidating sight of him, but not with fear. With—what? He was too close, too overpowering. His rangy build hunkered over her like a Norse god of old, torch flames touching his skin with a golden patina, his lashes stuck white with snow. The man shed physical energy like shooting stars. Her hands trembled; she tucked them forcibly into her lap to disguise the shake.
Beside them, the light guttered ominously, the flame dipping and sliding, blue-tinged. ‘We’ve tarried long enough. We need to go back to the castle before this light fails,’ Bruin muttered. ‘And before this wretched snow becomes too deep.’ His gaze swept the maid’s neatly wrapped wimple, the delicate wrists resting in her lap, her slim calves poking out from beneath her gown: a swift assessment. ‘Take your stocking off so I can bind the wound.’
Eva’s head jerked upwards, eyes rounding in horror. ‘No. I cannot. You know I cannot.’ She stuck her chin in the air, bridling at his high-handed tone. ‘It would be improper.’
‘Improper
